


regrets

by crashing_into_the_sun



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: AU where Baz kills Simon kind of ish, Angst, Boys Kissing, Gay, Ghosts, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Mention of Mental Illness, One Shot, SnowBaz, but it's not as bad as it sounds I swear, carry on, gay boys, god so much angst, i don't know what this is, lil bit of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 02:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6733699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crashing_into_the_sun/pseuds/crashing_into_the_sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baz killed Simon in eighth year. And now, Simon is back.</p><p>AKA my life sucks and I threw all my angst onto Baz sorry not sorry</p>
            </blockquote>





	regrets

**Baz**

This has happened before.

I don't know who he is or why he always chooses my house. I've never spoken to him, only peeked through the window, careful to make sure he didn't see me, and stared.

He is radiant.

The first time I was confused- he stood in the middle of the road, staring at my house, at my front porch almost longingly. And then a car came and hit him, hard, and I almost cried out, until I saw that he hadn't moved an inch. Still he stood, stoic and beautiful, staring.

I pretended it was a nightmare, and he was gone the next morning. It was a little hard, going about my day as usual, but the whole thing had an ethereal quality to it, detached enough from reality that I could convince myself (at least for a while) that my three AM adventure was nothing but a dream. Until it happened a second time.

It was two weeks later, and this time he was a little bit closer- the edge of the road, just out of the line of traffic (I thought maybe he had learned his lesson). He wasn't moving, wasn't even breathing, just standing there. If I hadn't known better I would have thought him a statue, and he certainly looked like it. He could be the picture of Apollo or Adonis, looking royal and strong and bronze. His hair flew up in wild, unmoving curls that looked like they were frozen in midair after being blown up by a strong gust of wind. His eyes were open, staring, staring, maybe glaring, blue as blue could be and dark. I couldn't meet his gaze, and I didn't want to. The intensity made me uncomfortable. I shut the shudders and curled up on my couch, turned the television up as loud as it would go and didn't sleep a wink that night.

I tried to tell Mordelia about it, but she just blushed and asked if I'd stopped taking my meds again. "I can't fucking think when I'm on those, you know that, Mordi. They fuzz everything together and turn it all pretty colors, they paint a smile on my face that isn't mine. I feel like a puppet when I take them. You _know_ that." She just nodded, and I knew what she was going to say next ("They're good for you, Basil, just try one more time,") but I couldn't do it. I'd dumped them all down the sink and turned on the faucet. They melted into grey mud.

Besides, he was different. He was concrete. Powerful, real. He sent chills crawling down my spine like spiders and made my heart race, and he was constant, every few weeks standing cold and clean on my front lawn.

The fifth time it happened, he was close enough for me to see the bloodstains on his pale blue button up. He looked like he'd been through hell- his hem was torn, one sleeve was gone, the top two buttons had popped off, exposing his smooth, tawny chest. He was covered in scratches. I peered between the curtains, memorizing every detail of his face. A dark mole on his cheek, another on his neck, more on his shoulders and his hairline and the hollow of his throat. A small, snub nose with a smack of freckles down the bridge. He was tan, but somehow deadly pale, no color in his cheeks, no sign of life dancing in his eyes but the fierce focus of his gaze at some unknown thing. He was beautiful.

I knew at that point he was dead. No one could survive a wound as deep as the one exposed at the base of his chest, covered in congealed brown blood.

He's at my doorstep and I don't know what he wants. ( _That's a lie you're a liar, liar_ ).

I can see my heartbeat, a tiny, fluorescent pink pulse, in the bottom corner of my eye. My breath comes out in shuddering, sobbing gasps and I don't realize that I'm shaking, that I'm crying, until my weak hands drop my coffee mug to the floor and it shatters into dozens of pieces and I try to pick it up but the pieces are so sharp and there's blood on my hands and I hold my face and there's blood and its mixing with tears and he's here he's here he's _here_ -

I tried so hard to forget him. That's why I stopped taking the medicine, truthfully. It brought me back to reality, took away the darkness in the compartments of my mind I'd worked so hard to put away. It brought me back my magic, my _damned_ magic, my memories that left me crying, shaking on the floor just like I am now, hyperventilating, vision closing in- he knocks. My blood freezes colder than the dead of December. Maybe if I'm still enough, if I don't even draw a breath, he'll leave me alone. It's torture enough to know what I've done without having to look it in the eye.

He knocks louder. I shakily get up from my knees, torn and bloody from the fragments of the cup, and draw back the curtains. His head snaps at the sound and he smiles.

I used to love his smile. He used to walk into a room and laugh and grin and make everything feel light and fluffy and I would overflow with longing when he pointed that gorgeous smile my way. This isn't the same smile. This smile is out for blood, and I stifle a scream when he lifts his arm deliberately and beckons me with one finger.

I don't even realize that I'm moving. Legs moving on their own, muscle memory, one foot after the other. I don't feel it. I'm numb. My vision begins to go blurry. I see the world spin once, twice, and then everything goes black.

*

The ground is so cold, covered in cruel, slick ice and there's blood everywhere. I look down at my hands, and then I see it. The Sword of Mages, my hand curled tight around the hilt, arm out straight. My eyes follow the ancient designs, carved into solid gold, up the hilt and to the blade. The blade is made of some magickal metal, something very heavy, durable, and sharp. It glints in the sun. The sun is oddly bright, for it to be this cold. I blink a few times, getting used to my surroundings. My eyes continue to follow up the sword. The blade is multi-faceted, curved just right so that at the perfect angle, a straight forward thrust would-

Would cut right through someone.

It's a foot deep, buried in Simon's chest, and I scream, scream, scream and the world is on fire. "Baz," Simon croaks out, and a small trickle of blood seeps from the corner of his lovely full lips. My eyes dart back and forth frantically- what have I done? The sword slides out of him with a grotesque gurgle and clatters to the ground. Blood rushes from him and he falls to his knees. It's like I have tunnel vision, and everything is black but the seraphic boy kneeling before me. He clutches at his stomach and I clutch at mine.

Then suddenly I'm sitting and his head is in my lap, and tears are streaking down my face. _Why, why, why,_ I scream at the top of my lungs, but I can't tell if I'm thinking it or if it's really coming out, turning seventeen years of hatred and anger into one soulless yell. I stroke his sweaty, bloody hair. "I love you, I love you, Simon don't leave me, I'm so sorry, I'm so fucking sorry, fuck, Simon I love you-" his shallow breathing stops. The stench of his blood is too much for me, drying in layers on my hands and face and pooling around my feet. A flash of light, brighter than you could ever imagine, and everything is gone. The world has crumbled at my feet and lays there in the form of a thin, pitiful dead boy.

*

The door swings open of it's own accord and we're nose to nose and I remember. For the first time in seven years, I remember what happened that night. I remember my father, rooting for Simon's blood. I remember the bubble of magic building up around him so that I was afraid to approach. The crowd gathered around us, the Mage shying everyone away ("There's no preventing this- it's destiny. Any interference now will just get more people hurt,"). Looking into Simon's fierce blue eyes for the first time since I watched the light seep out of them, I remember him baring his teeth and me thinking, _I should just grab him by the back of the neck right now and kiss him_. And I remember my feeble attempt, lunging for him and wrapping one arm around the nape of his neck. His swing with the sword, and my interception- I have a scar on my arm from it. I lift my sleeve and stare at it, knotted and bumped up flesh. The wound was poorly stitched. Vividly, so vividly I have to fight to stand up, I remember grabbing the sword and sweeping it away from me, instinctual. And I remember the sickening crunch of bones as it slipped neatly between Simon's ribs.

Now it's me on my knees at his feet.

**Simon**

He looks exactly the same as he did the day he killed me. Still just as strikingly beautiful, exotically dark. He looks like the perfect person to play the villain in my hero's story, and he did just that.

It was the worst pain I ever felt- not the sword grinding up my ribs and my heart beating so fast, beating the blood right out of me- the worst pain was seeing him break down, watching him cast desperate, nonsensical healing spells that he knew wouldn't work.

The worst pain was hearing him say he loved me.

You don't murder people you love. You don't look people you love in the eyes, with your own eyes cold and grey and hard, and shove unforgiving swords into their soft bellies.

There was so much darkness to push through after I died- so much unimaginable nothing- that I never thought I'd make it back. I guess you can only come back if you have unfinished business or something, at least that's what I'd heard. But every time I tried to come back to say my last goodbyes to Penny, or finally defeat the Humdrum, I ended up at Baz's house. Each time a little closer. And I guess now I know why.

I ended up here because it was the last place on earth I'd like to be.

Because I didn't want to realize what I've been fearing all along.

I lied earlier- this, now, seeing him on his knees before me, begging for forgiveness, this realization is the most painful thing I've ever experienced.

To realize that the person who killed you is the one you love more than anything else in the world.

Can ghosts cry? Tears of blood run down my cheeks. Baz screams.

**Baz**

I've exhausted my supplies. I thought my tears had run dry long ago, but I guess they build back up over time. Now, though, all I can do is sit at his feet, look up into his face and see how much I've hurt him. Signs of his pain run down his face in bloody watermarks. He blinks, and his movement is all wrong. Everything he does is either too slow or too quick, like he's trying to get used to the body he formerly called his own (thinking on it, he probably is).

Casually, like it doesn't mean everything in the world, he sits down next to me. I reach up and brush the tears from his face- they leave no mark on my hand. I almost expect not to be able to touch him, to pass right through him, but he takes my hands in his and holds them in his lap. He opens his mouth and his voice is so wrong, but so right. "Baz," he says, like he's testing the waters, and it strikes me that that was his last word. My name. I've always loved the way my name rolled across his lips.

"Simon," I whisper, but it comes out like a choke.

"I'm not sure why I'm here." It's Simon's voice, but diluted, windy. It sounds like it comes from a far away place.

"Why else would you be here? To get revenge on me. Just... Just make it quick, okay? Maybe fire. Hold me while I go out, if you care for me at all. Not that you'd have any reason to." I furrow my brows at him. Is he laughing? Quick, breathless laughter, the play of a smile around his lips.

"I'm not here for revenge, Basilton. I don't feel very vengeful, anyway." He considers. "No, definitely not feeling vengeful. I'm so sleepy though, always so sleepy." He flickers, and I jump.

"No, don't-" and just like that he's back.

"I'm sorry. I can't stay here for long periods of time. I just get so tired." He smiles sheepishly, the tiniest smile. I notice suddenly that we're still holding hands.

"Why, then? Why tire yourself if not to get vengeance on the man who-" my voice gives out. _The man who loves you_. "who killed you?" Simon chuckles again.

"I think I know why." His eyes look sadder than they have ever before, and though I still tremble, now it's out of despair rather than fear. "I've had a lot of time to figure things out. It's time to let something go." He pauses, and reaches his hand up to take a lock of my hair. "You've really grown it out." It slips through his fingertips. "You're as beautiful as ever, you know, Baz."

The air catches in my throat. "As are you," I reply, solemn-eyed and solemn-souled.

"Baz, look at me, okay? I want you to really look at me. Are you looking at me?" I nod, eyes stuck on the wound I caused. "Good." And he punches me in the jaw as hard as he can.

"Fuck!" My head snaps back and I grasp the side of my face. But It isn't like I say anything else- if this is the worst he's going to do, then I should be thanking him.

"That's better," he says nonchalantly, shaking out his knuckles. I stare at him, blank.

"That's it?" I whisper, and he shrugs. A wave of anger washes over me, coals burning in my stomach and hissing smoke curling from my mouth, "I fucking _killed_ you, Snow! Doesn't that make you angry? Why the bloody hell don't you want to rip out my heart right now? Why aren't you dousing me in gasoline? I killed you, I killed you and then I told you that I loved you. And you know what's even more fucked up?" My voice breaks pitifully. "I did. Love you. I still do."

"I know, Baz. It's okay, okay? I know why I'm here. I need to forgive you. It's okay. It's okay. Baz," he sighs, and his hands find a home in my hair, clutching at the silken black strands and pulling me close and then he's kissing me, he's kissing me, and he tastes like cinnamon and blood and fire, and his lips are so soft, so soft. "I forgive you." I can't think, I can't see, my insides are boiling and seizing up and I'm kissing Simon Snow. "I love you, too, Baz. But it's time to move on."

And he's gone.

**Simon**

This. This is what I came for. I can tell as soon as lips touch and the cold that's been at the center of my core turns into a blazing heat, warming me from the inside out. He's got his hands on the back of my neck just like before, but this time no sharp pain comes in my ribs, no blood oozes from my chest. Just an unquenchable thirst for more, until I give into the flames.

As I feel myself turn into ash, the last bits of my earthly soul blowing through the wind, I can see Baz. He's a little fuzzy (I don't know if it's from tears or if I'm truly leaving, for good this time) but he's smiling. And I know he's going to be okay.

I guess that's all I really wanted in the first place.


End file.
